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IGNAZIO ^ 

A DROP FROM THE MELTING POT / 


By 

JESSIE MILLS 

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1918: 

Saulsbury Publishing Company 
Baltimore 




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SEP 1 i 1918 


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Copyright, 1918 

by 

Jessie Mills. 


To the friends who have given me encourage- 
ment in publishing this little story, this hook is 
gratefully inscribed. 


The Author. 






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IGNAZIO 

A Drop From the Melting Pot. 

O UR home is in the middle west, not many 
miles from the Illinois river. The country 
is rich, with golden corn for its girdle and 
beds of coal for its footstool. Rich in resources, 
it is rich in beauty, too, for those who love its 
windblown fields of ripened grain, contrasting 
sharply with dark green seas of glistening corn, 
all bathed in the sunlight chased by the shadows. 

The city in which we live has about twelve 
thousand inhabitants. It is attractive with its 
shaded streets and well-kept lawns. A manufac- 
turing city, it makes more plows than any city in 
the world. In the outside world it is best known 
as Plow City. The implements find their way to 
the remote corners of the world and in return 
large numbers of immigrants, from many differ- 
ent countries find their way here to help us in our 
industries. One teacher in our public schools has 
a little melting pot all her own in which are gath- 
ered children of eighteen nationalities. 

Twice I had seen Ignazio before he came to live 
in our neighborhood ; once at a church Christmas 
tree where my attention was arrested by his sin- 
gularly beautiful face aglow with wonder and 
delight. He was a typical Italian boy, four years 
old, with a mass of dark brown curls falling 
around his face, a rich olive complexion, red 


8 


Ignazio 


cheeks, large, dark, expressive eyes and chubby 
form. With a tiny shawl pinned quaintly around 
his shoulders, Ignazio was a rarely attractive and 
picturesque little figure. 

The next summer, seated in a carriage at a 
band concert, I saw him come trotting swiftly 
across the street from his father's fruit store near 
by, dodging the stream of carriages constantly 
passing, to the brightly lighted park in the center 
of our public square. Dressed in blue overalls he 
lay rolling and tumbling on the grass or stood 
watching the crowd and listening to the music, 
personified gladness. 

That summer there was a change of occupants 
in a house two doors from us and to my delight I 
discovered Ignazio rolling on our terrace and 
playing with the children in the street. 

Miss Nell, our next door neighbor, a beautiful 
girl some sixteen years of age, saw Ignazio, too, 
and was captivated by him. Just past five years 
old he was bright, sunny, imperious, with a tem- 
per that flashed. He had caught the language of 
the street in his home on the public square. Miss 
Nell told him how much she wanted him to play 
in her yard but that he couldn't if he used such 
words. His response was instant.. He basked in 
her love, played freely on her grounds and rode 
with her in her surrey devoted to '‘Mister" Nell. 
Little by little as we became aquainted we 
learned the family history. 


A Drop From the Melting Pot 9 

Ignazio’s father, Joseph Caruso, left Sicily 
when twenty years of age because, as he recently 
told me, ''I was almost crazy. No chance! No 
chance! Wages nineteen cents a day.'' So he 
broke away in spite of his mother's tears, reach- 
ing Canada penniless. With the universal sign 
language he obtained odd jobs for five weeks, 
when he had saved enough to buy a large basket, 
stock it with fruit and start in business. 

Later he returned to Sicily for a wife, coming 
back to Canada where Ignazio was born. When 
the boy was two years old they came to Plow City 
where Mr. Caruso and his brother established a 
substantial fruit business with, later, a rating in 
Dun and Bradstreet. 

Soon after Ignazio came to be our neighbor my 
mother passed away. He appeared at our door, 
awe and sorrow in his large, dark eyes, and asked 
in awestruck tones, “Did a lady die here?" 

With this introduction we were soon friends 
and one evening my sister took Ignazio a ride with 
Black Bess. The sun was setting a ball of flame. 
When she turned south Ignazio noticed that the 
sun seemed to move with them. Much excited 
he exclaimed, “It's cornin' ! It's cornin' right along 
with us! Who put it up there?" 

“God." 

“Is he a man or a woman?" 

A few days Inter he rode out with me. He sat 
silent, gazing at the white clouds floating in the 


10 


Ignazio 


sky, then asked, with wonder, *'The black clouds, 
the white clouds, where are they when we cannot 
see them? Who put them up there?” 

*‘God.” 

''Oh, Gy ! Gy ! I know all about him ! He^s the 
one who put the sun up there. Now is he a man 
or a woman ?” 

Then followed a rapid fire of questions, "When 
Gy sees a cow, what does he do ? When Gy sees a 
squirrel, what does he do? When Gy sees man 
bust a tree, what does he do?” 

"Do you mean chop a tree down?” I asked. 

"Yes, what does Gy do?” 

After a long pause, he asked slowly, "When Gy 
sees man swear, what does Gy do?” 

Then still more slowly, "When Gy sees man 
swear and man die, what does Gy do ?” 

Quite beyond my depth I took refuge in teach- 
ing him, "The eyes of the Lord are in every place, 
beholding the evil and the good.” 

We had driven a long distance by a circuitous 
route. As we neared a bridge at the foot of a 
hill, he said, "My papa shot a rabbit there.” 

"Were you ever here before?” I asked, with 
surprise. 

"Yes, my papa brought me out to the dumplin’ 
ground.” 

The dumping ground was nearer town, reached 
by another road, but he was not mistaken and had 


A Drop From the Melting Pot 


11 


recognized the place instantly. His sense of local- 
ity and direction was remarkable. 

Ignazio had formed the habit of coming to our 
house daily and often many times a day. When he 
was five and a half years old he started to school. 
This opened a new enchanted world to him. He 
had changed greatly since coming into the neigh- 
borhood. The imperiousness had dropped away 
and seldom did we see a flash of temper. A quiet 
reasonableness, with an all pervasive friendliness 
had taken its place. His mind, active before, 
after he started to school was alive with questions. 
Except for a special aptitude for figures, the var- 
ious studies and occupations made almost equal 
appeal to him with his richly varied nature. Dur- 
ing that first year, lying on the floor at our home, 
he would fill foolscap pages with number work. 
When given a column of figures to write he said, 
haven^t had one thousand. Are there three 
oughts?'' and before a reply could be given he had 
written it correctly. In eleven years of experience 
his teacher had found no pupil equal to Ignazio in 
number work. In ten minutes he would fill a 
foolscap page with sums in addition and subtrac- 
tion without a mistake. 

The stories told by his teacher appealed strongly 
to his imagination and he would tell of wonderful 
happenings on the street and in the woods. When 
I would ask, 'Ts that really true, Ignazio?" ‘‘Why 


12 


Ignazio 


no, Miss Jessie,” he would answer, in surprise that 
I should ask, “I am telling you a story.” 

My father sometimes protested against allow- 
ing his mind to be so constantly on the alert and 
we would seek to turn his thought into a lighter 
vein. We gave him a shelf where he could keep 
Mother Goose and other books and games. These 
he used freely but he never meddled with any- 
thing. If he was doing what we did not wish him 
to do he heeded the lightest request. 

“Ignazio,” I said one day, “there are no such 
words as ’ain't and ’haint’. Don’t you think you 
had better cut them out?” 

“Why, Miss Jessie, I will cut them out and 
burn them up,” was his quick response. 

A few days later as I was setting the table, Ig- 
nazio asked from the couch where he was sitting, 
“Miss Jessie, aren’t you happy?” 

“Why, yes, Ignazio; why do you ask?” 

“I said it right,” he answered triumphantly. 
Then for ten or fifteen minutes he formed sen- 
tences with “aren’t” and “isn’t.” 

We tried to conserve some of Ignazio’s unique 
expressions but one by one they dropped away. 
The word “bust,” more forcible than elegant, we 
left unchallenged and he used it with telling effect. 
How he worked out the place it should occupy in 
English grammar, revealing his remarkable in- 
stinct for the science of language, was shown 
when he exclaimed “Why, Miss Jessie, there are 


A Drop From the Melting Pot 13 

three breaks aren't there? Break, broke, bust." 

In the next spring he brought his sister Ninuzza 
for the first time, as she had been too timid to 
come before. A little three-year-old, her hair 
which hung about her shoulders in a profusion of 
curls, was lighter brown that Ignazio's, her cheeks 
redder, her skin fairer and she had sparkling 
eyes and deep dimples. They came hand in hand 
and their radiant faces were very fair to see. 
Ignazio had taken great delight in a large scrap 
book. This the children enjoyed together. His 
paternal care of her was beautiful. The only 
words she spoke that first day and for long were, 
‘‘Good bye. I'm goin'!" Then suddenly she sur- 
prised us by the ease with which she spoke Eng- 
lish. With beaming face, Ignazio told my sister, 
when they were alone together, “Ninuzza follow 
me wherever I go." 

“Do you like to have her?" my sister asked. 

“Yes," radiantly, “Ninuzza love me, I love 
Ninuzza." 

In an unconventional way he expressed so much 
gratitude I had not said much about “Thank you," 
but when my sister had done some favor for him 
once, I said, “Ignazio, you have forgotten some- 
thing." 

Puzzled, he replied, “I don't know if I have." 
When it came to him he flushed so painfully I 
was sorry I had spoken. The children were just 
starting home. Asking them to wait on the front 


14 


Ignazio 


porch I slipped out the side door and picked two 
golden iris blossoms and gave them to Ignazio. 
His face lighted with pleasure but his only words 
were, '‘One for each.” 

I never heard him boast. When he was learning 
to print — he had written for some time — he show- 
ed me the word tree. The last e was perfect and 
thinking he had done well with all the letters, I 
praised him. “No, Miss Jessie,” he said, “looking 
at the word critically, “That^s good,” pointing to 
the one perfect letter. “The others aren't good, 
but I am a little boy. Perhaps when I am a big 
boy I can print nicely.” 

Decoration day my sister took our little neigh- 
bor to the cemetery with a large basket of flowers. 
Ignazio laid the flowers out of the basket with 
reverent care. He seemed absorbed in interest, 
but on the way home he said, “I wish there was 
school to-day.” 

“You couldn't have had this ride if there had 
been school.” 

“No, but I like school best.” 

The last day of school my sister found the fol- 
lowing note tied to our front door knob : 

“Dear Miss Mills, 

“I love you. School is out and I have got to 
play for three months. 


“Ignazio Caruse.'* 


A Drop From the Melting Pot 15 

In America the family were known as Caruse. 

Ignazio's love of nature was an outstanding 
characteristic. The first summer of our acquaint- 
ance, at the home of a friend, he was given a beau- 
tiful bunch of flowers. He told my sister on the 
way home, 'T put him in the groun* an' he will 
grow.” 

'Tf you put them in the ground they will fade, 
but if you put them into water they will keep 
fresh,” she replied. Not long after he caught 
sight of my sister and called in rueful tones, *T 
put the flowers into water an' he all died.” 

The next spring he called to her as he was pass- 
ing by to school, 'T have a little rosebush just so 
high,” measuring about six inches with his fingers, 
“an' it has hatched out a tiny little bud.” 

He watched with keen interest the flowers as 
they bloomed in the spring. The blue blossoms of 
the myrtle, the white lilacs, the lilies of the valley, 
the iris and wistaria, but when the roses came he 
reveled in their beauty. Decked with the roses, 
with bunches of them in their hands, he and 
Ninuzza would have challenged the brush of an ar- 
tist. 

The preceding autumn a long country drive took 
them through Bittersweet lane, the wildest, most 
picturesque bit of scenery near Plow City. Ab- 
sorbed in opening milkweed pods and blowing the 
silky down away he had not noticed the country 
through which xhey were passing. Looking up 


16 


Ignazio 


suddenly, he saw high hills clothed in their bril- 
liant autumn dress, beyond a deep valley through 
which ran a winding stream. With a sweeping 
gesture of both hands toward the scene, he ex- 
claimed, “Oh, ain't him pretty !” 

The afterglow of a sunset attracted his atten- 
tion, filling him with delight. The rich maroons 
and purples were most beautiful, but few children 
would have noticed them. Stretching his- hands 
out eagerly toward the scene, he exclaimed ex- 
citedly, “Oh, ain't him pretty! Can't we catch 
him?" A year later he asked my sister if she re- 
membered that beautiful sunset. With an artist's 
instinct Ignazio made mental pictures of what he 
saw, adding imaginary touches here and there. 
Seeing a herd of cattle in a pasture, some stand- 
ing, some lying down, he called my attention to 
the color of each, red, black, faun colored. Rub- 
bing his hands softly down either side of his neck 
and pointing to a vacant spot in the center of the 
herd, he said, “I like a pure white one lyin' there 
coming to a high, broad tableland, “I like my 
schoolhouse there," and when we saw a valley with 
its woods and winding creek, he added, “I like my 
house there." 

Asked by others to say whom he liked best he 
always said, “I like you all best." There was just 
one thing he would say he liked best and that was 
school. His thirst for knowledge was insatiable. 


A Drop From the Melting Pot 17 

“Miss Jessie, how many grades are there? I want 
to go to the two hundredth grade.” 

When in March Ignazio had passed his sixth 
birthday he came in one of his silent moods. After 
sitting for some time without speaking, he said, 
with slow emphasis, with a nod and pause after 
each word, “I — like — God.” I used to swear and 
I used to smoke but I don’t any more.” 

Not content to live on the surface he sought to 
trace things to their hidden sources. I found him 
lying on the lounge one day, a puzzled look on his 
face, trying to think something out. At last he 
said, speaking slowly, as if in deep perplexity, “I 
don’t understand. Was the first duck a duck or an 
egg? Was the first man a man or a baby? If it 
was a baby who took care of it? Did God?” 

I had taught him the beatitudes and a number 
of bible verses. One day he asked, “Aren’t there 
any more of the ‘blesseds’? I like the ‘blesseds’ 
best of all.” 

A scroll of Bible pictures was a source of unfail- 
ing delight. Scarcely a day passed that summer 
that he did not leave his play with the children 
and ask me to tell him about the “Jesus book.” 
As he became familiar with the stories he would 
gather a group of children about him on our side 
porch or around the center table and having set- 
tled who should turn the scroll by drawing cuts, 
tell them about the pictures. That mingled group 
of Italian and Anglo-Saxon faces made a picture 


18 


Ignazio 


of rare beauty. His way of telling of the pictures 
was original and vivid. “'Mary and Joseph went 
to the hotel an’ it was full, so they had to go to the 
barn.” The story of the rich young ruler im- 
pressed him deeply; "Jesus told the rich ruler man 
to go and sell all that he had an’ give to the poor, 
an* he never but he was sorry.** 

One bright summer morning Ignazio and I had 
driven around a quarter section. He had counted 
all the cows as was his wont and was wildly de- 
lighted with the squirrels. As we neared town 
he summed up what we had seen. Placing his 
hands together then separating them with a 
sweeping gesture after each clause, he said, "All 
the cows, an’ all the sheep, an’ all the pigs, an’ all 
the squirrels, an’ all the horses, an’ all the grass, 
an’ all the trees,” then pausing he turned his face 
skyward and pointing up, added with awe, "an’ 
God up there.” 

Ignazio was very loyal to his own people through 
the years. He was our interpreter but sometimes 
we wished we might speak directly with the moth- 
er. As we were sitting on the porch one evening 
Ignazio said, "Ninuzza say to my mama, “Little 
children love each another.’ My mama write it 
down. My papa come from the store. My mama 
say to my papa, “Little children love each an- 
other’.” 

This pleased us giving evidence as it did of the 
sympathetic interest of his parents. 


A Drop From the Melting Pot 

Fourth of July was coming. My sister had 
taught Ignazio a poem and we were celebrating 
by firing crackers in our backyard with Ignazio 
and two or three neighbor boys. Ignazio’s father 
came hurriedly down the driveway an anxious 
look upon his face. When he caught sight of my 
sister and me his face cleared. I stepped forward 
to speak to him. ‘That's all right. That’s all 
right, Miss Jess. I was afraid Ignazio would get 
hurt. I don’t want him to be out with rough, bad 
boys. I want Ignazio to be good an’ better.” We 
shared the father’s anxiety. Ignazio had con- 
fessed with shame that sometimes, stung by the 
taunts of the boys, he had sworn. 

How the word “dago” stung him we had a 
chance to know. As he was riding with me 
through the outskirts of the town two rude boys 
called out to him, “Dago! Dago!” Ignazio made 
no response and the only evidences that he had 
heard were in the deep flush which overspread 
his face, a furtive glance at me, to see whether I 
had heard, and a shrinking movement into the 
comer of the buggy seat, almost as though he had 
been struck. Though a favorite with his school 
fellows they sometimes did not resist the impulse 
to tease him. My sister was sitting in her room 
where she had a view of the street but was not 
seen. Through the open window she heard some 
schoolboys call out to Ignazio, who was passing, 
“Dago, Dago!” The blood rushed into his face 


20 


Ignazio 


and he said in a subdued and pleading tone, “You 
needn't call me that where Miss Mills can hear/' 
He ould not bear to be humiliated before us. 

Ignazio had a gift for quiet, steady, prolonged 
work. He became greatly interested in silk por- 
tieres my sister was making. He had a keen sense 
of love of color. Her scheme for sorting the colors 
was quite complicated — would have been confus- 
ing to most grown persons. For two hours Igna- 
zio sorted the colors for her with great painstak- 
ing making no mistakes. 

Ignazio took great pleasure in constructing long 
trains of street cars for Ninuzza and himself of 
shoe boxes illuminated with candles. Through the 
stained glass windows, made of different colored 
papers, passengers could be plainly seen when the 
candles were lighted and the shades of evening 
had fallen. Other children would join them with 
their cars and the evening was enlivened by the 
color and brightness. We were the custodians of 
these cars and many of Ignazio's dearest treas- 
ures, for he was very careful of his books and 
toys fearing they would be destroyed at home by 
baby fingers. 

The practical side of Ignazio’s nature found 
expression when at the age of seven he started in 
business. Saturday evening, the night of our 
band concert, when the square was thronged with 
people from the town and surrounding country, he 
sold popcorn and drove a thriving business with 


A Drop From the Melting Pot 


21 


which he suffered nothing to interfere. Great 
was the interest of the people in the picturesque 
little figure, weaving his way in and out of the 
crowd, making swift and accurate change. 

Wherever Black Bess took us through the town 
or country he was greeted by name. Sometimes 
I would ask, “Ignazio, who was that?” “He know 
me but I don't know who he be.” 

Driving in from the country with Ignazio when 
he was a little fellow, at a turn of the road we 
came upon a horse stretched upon the ground 
dead. Shocked by the sight, he asked, in distress, 
“Miss Mills, what made he die?” 

“He is so thin he looks as though he had starved 
to death,” she replied. 

He gazed with deep pity in his eyes, then ex- 
claimed, “My papa gets me plenty to eat — plenty.*' 

He had a quick deep sympathy. A friend had 
lost her father and Ignazio held the horse while I 
went in to see her. When he learned she was left 
alone he said with sympathy, “There will be no 
one to eat at the table with her.” His appreciation 
of circumstances and situations was unusual. 

Father, Ignazio and I started for a ride but the 
cold wind drove my father back. When he left 
Ignazio settled himself comfortably upon the 
seat, saying, “Now we have more room.” The 
remark was not like him in its seeming want of 
thought for my father, but it was only in seeming 
for when we were a long way out and he saw some 


22 


Ignazio 


squirrels he eagerly exclaimed “I wish your father 
hadn't gone back, I wanted him to see the squir- 
rels !" 

There was no time when Ignazio's laugh rang 
through the house more merrily than when he had 
slipped in and hidden behind a door or under a 
table and we would come upon him unaware. His 
love of games was keen and as I was forced to 
spend many idle hours many were the games of 
tit tat toe, jack straws and checkers we played. 
If he found me lying down he never asked for any- 
thing but would sit and talk quietly till I arose. 
His first question was always, ‘‘Miss Jessie, are 
you rested?" If I said, “Yes," “Could you play a 
game with me?" 

We had many drawn battles and often I was 
completely routed. 

Once, unable to play I asked my brother to take 
my place at tit tat toe. Ignazio constantly on the 
alert was worsting him without mercy. My aunt 
stepping out on the porch where they were play- 
ing asked, “Ignazio, who is beating?" 

He colored, hesitated, then answered with re- 
lief as a way out came to him, “The old cat is 
ahead." Modesty and deference were instinctive 
with him. 

His manner toward my father was always rev- 
erential and strong was the friendship between 
them. 

The summer after Ignazio was eight years old 


A Drop From the Melting Pot 


23 


he asked if he might put a croquet set on our 
ground as he had no place for one at home. We 
had an ideal spot between our house and the gar- 
den, shaded by our cherry trees and surrounding 
elms and maples. Many were the hours he spent 
alone. We called it our fair and square ground 
and I acted as umpire. Like all croquet grounds it 
proved a character tester, revealing both the 
weakness and strength of the players and at times 
I saw the hot flash of Ignazio^s temper and had a 
chance to test the quality of his will. There were 
some good players, but he had the surest stroke. 
After Ninuzza and Elizabeth, the little daughter 
of a physician who lived next door, entered the 
lists the cutest pictures were seen. It was not 
long before they were more than a match for the 
average player and with their free and independ- 
ent strokes they sometimes defeated even Ignazio. 

There was a deep vein of caution in Ignazio's 
nature which ran through all his choices. He did 
not wish to get into a situation he could not see 
his way through. 

When Miss Nell moved to California deep was 
our regret, but her mantle fell on Josephine, the 
ten year old daughter of our new neighbors. With 
her spacious playhouse, furnished with all that 
dolls or children might desire and Sim, her Shet- 
land pony, hers was an enchanted kingdom and 
she ruled with impartial love and justice, a queen. 
Sim with his carriage full of happy children took 


24 


Ignazio 


them long drives. Then with a saddle on his 
back each little boy and girl rode so many times 
around the driveway encircling our place, even 
two year old Pedro not missing his ride. When 
Josephine gave Ninuzza a large wax doll with 
eyes that opened and shut and long ringlets of 
real hair, Ninuzza's heart was too full for speech. 

Ignazio led such a natural life, so free from self- 
consciousness, that at work or play he was always 
at his best. He was very fond of music. From 
a little fellow he had sung and that summer he 
joined us Sunday afternoons in singing hymns. 
Though words and music were both new to him he 
read them through with few mistakes, soon sing- 
ing them perfectly. Then out in the open, under 
the shade of the elm tree the children would gather 
around my cot and we would sing songs and clear, 
strong, sweet, true, it was Ignazio's voice that led. 

When we invited the children to spend the day 
at Chautauqua with us saying we would furnish 
the lunch, they would come generously supplied 
with fruit for us all and Thanksgiving, Christmas 
and many other times the children came laden 
with the choicest fruits, radiant with the pleasure 
of giving. 

The long vacations were perplexing times for us 
as Ignazio grew older. The lads, who had been 
such good playfellows for him, had moved from 
the neighborhood and he sought companions where 
he could find them. With bat and ball he led a 


A Drop From the Melting Pot 25 

cturdy active life and even when “aint" and 
*‘haint'' crept into his vocabulary again we still 
were glad to have him develop his body and let the 
brain lie fallow, but at times we grew very anx- 
ious as we saw the influence upon him and we 
wondered what form our civilization would fur- 
nish for this plastic nature waiting to be cast in 
the finest mold. We longed for a place where he 
xjould play with boys of his own age manly sports 
suited to develop a strong, supple body, under 
wholesome influences. Each year the opening of 
school cleared the sky and Ignazio was with us as 
frequently as ever, his mind teeming with ques- 
tions. 

Ignazio had looked forward to drawing books 
from the public library and when at the age of ten 
the privilege was his it was a great help. He still 
longed for a companion of his own age but dressed 
neatly he spent most of the long vacation reading 
quietly at home, on our croquet grounds, or play- 
ing games with us, and teaching Elizabeth and 
Ninuzza to play authors. 

In July Josephine fell dangerously sick and the 
neighborhood was hushed. One afternoon as the 
children were playing on the croquet ground with 
subdued voices, Josephine’s mother came out and 
asked Ignazio to mail a letter for her. Both my 
sister and myself were impressed by the subtle 
mingling of sorrow, sympathy and dignity in face 
and manner as he stepped forward to take the 


26 


Ignazio 


letter from her hand, honored that under such cir- 
cumstances he could be of service. 

About this time Mr. Caruso told me he was 
going to take his family to Italy for a visit, 
haven't seen my father for twelve years and my 
wife wants to see her mother. We must go an' 
when we come back we will live dif'rent." 

''You mean you have been camping," I replied. 

"Exactly, but when we come back we settle 
down an' have a home." 

The entire family came to bid us goodbye, fath- 
er, mother, Ignazio, Ninuzza, Pedro and baby 
Josephine, all dressed in American style. Mrs. 
Caruso's graceful black lace mantilla had given 
place to an American hat. 

We followed them out, my father, sister and I, 
watching them enter the omnibus with glad and 
grateful hearts, yet with a touch of sadness. A 
thousand miles of land, the broad ocean and the 
blue Mediterranean would soon separate us and 
who knew 

Ignazio stood on the steps of the bus waving 
us goodbye and they were off. 

"Termeni Imerese, 
"Sep. 23, 1910. 

"Dear Miss Mills and Miss Jessie, 

"I will write you a few lines to let you know we 
are all well, father, mother, sisters and brother. 
Miss Mills we have been having a very good time. 


A Drop From the Melting Pot 27 

Still I don't like to stay here long but my father 
says he is going to stay all winter. We see here 
lots of mountains and see here is lots of rocks. 
Here is the best fish of all and we have them nearly 
every dinner. We live near the ocean they catch 
fish every night and sell them in the morning. 
Here is lots of fresh figs right on the tree and 
lots of fresh grapes. There are lots of lemons 
trees and nice fresh lemons. 

'T want to know if you got the postal cards. 
How is all of yous, and I like to know how is Jos- 
ephine. I like to know how is cousin Jimmie my 
uncle Frank and aunt Josephine and I like to know 

how is Elizabeth C and Doctor C and 

Mrs. C and the little boy. and I give the best 

regards to the neighborhood where I live. That 
is all I got to say right now. 

remind, 

‘‘Yours Truly 

“Ignazio Caruse." 


“Termini Imerese, 
“Dec. 14, 1910. 

“Dear Miss Mills and Miss Jessie, 

“I received your letter and am glad to hear 
from you. and I am glad to hear that you are all 
well. I understand there has been good weather, 
and here is south wind and warm all the time. I 
wish to see you, Miss Jessie and all our Friends. 
I understand little Jimmy is lonesome since we 


28 


Ignazio 


been away and I hope he will know us when we 
get back there. I am very glad Aunt Josephine 
can speak English very much, and I am glad 
Miss Jessie is learning her. I am awfully sorry to 
hear that Josephine is dead. I understand Dr. 

C will be moving away from the neighborhood 

and I am sorry to lose this nice people. I am aw- 
fully glad to hear that baby Philip is well. You 
said that Pedro will forget English and he forgot 
some now but when we go back we will learn 
more. We talk sometime with him. I think we 
don’t forget any more. Ninuzza and I go to school 
here. I like to go to school here. I like to learn 
to read and write Italian before we go back. You 
haven’t got a idea how many mountains we have 
around this town. Three or four miles from the 
town. They are big and so high. Here is all kind 
of fresh fish all the time. Every day they pass 
our house. You haven’t got a idea how they are. 
If I could send a good mass of fish I would send 
them long ago, My friend Miss Mills I hope these 
months will pass right away so I will be there 
right away, I think I can find some other boys to 
play with. I wish I could sing some hymns and 
play some games too but we can’t come over there 
because the water is rough in the winter time. 
My father is afraid if we get all sick. I am learn- 
ing in school to read and write Italian we don’t 
like it in Italy, Uncle Frank tells you all right our 
right name is Caruso. Ninuzza, Pedro and I like 


A Drop Front the Melting Pot 29 

to see my cousin Jimmy, Dear Miss Jessie I am 
glad you miss us very much and we miss you too. 
My mother and father talk about you all the time. 

‘‘Kindest regards to your father and Miss Jes- 
sie. My father and mother, grandpa and grand- 
ma do the same. Kindest regards to Uncle Frank, 
his wife and little Jimmy. We wish you a merry 
Christmas and a happy new year. 

“Yours truly, 

“good by Ignazio Caruso." 


“Termini Emerese, 
“Mch. 23, 1911. 

“Dear miss Mills 

“I received your welcome letter and you don’t 
know how glad I was to hear from you. Dear 
Miss Jessie I think we staid here very long and I 
think we will go in a very short time but we don’t 
know yet when we will go. Miss Jessie you tell 
our Uncle Frank to not be lonesome without us, 
because we will be there in a very short time. 
Tell him to do the best he can in the business, 
you said in the letter Elizabeth went there and 
played checkers I wish you play once more for me. 
you have to practing very good because I will 
beat both of yous you said that you and the 
whole family want to see us and we want to see 
you and the whole family. You said in the letter 
to bring a whole lot of Italian books but I wont 
forget it. When we go back there again we will 


30 


Ignazio 


fix our right name because our right name is Ca- 
ruso. You said in the letter that you don’t forget 
us and we don’t forget you how long we live. We 
plan to come there the first part of the summer 
You tell my Uncle Frank that when I write the 
next letter I write better in Italian because we get 
better every day. The people is all surprised that 
how I did learn so quick. Of course we learn lots 
that is good but nothing that is bad. I am awfully 
glad that there is another school built. When it 
was my birthday we had a big holiday. I am aw- 
fully glad to receive that news about Caruso the 
best singer in the world. I want to play a game of 
croquet when I come. I am awfully glad to hear 
that Philip is running alone. Give my best re- 
gards to Miss C and family Miss F and 

family Miss A and family and give my best 

regards to Uncle Frank and Aunt Josephine and 
little Jimmy. I haven’t got anything else to say 
“Your best friend, 

“Ignazio Caruso. 

“goodby goodby the whole family.” 


“Termini Imerese 
“Aug. 23, 1911. 

Dear Miss Mills, 

“We are all well and I hope yous the same. I 
was awful glad to hear from yous. 

“We can’t go in America because in Palermo we 
have to stay five days and in New York or Boston 


A Drop From the Melting Pot 


31 


we have to stay twenty or thirty days in the ocean 
for the cholera. 

''We are getting along fine but I hope the cholera 
will stop soon so I will go in America when I go 
over there I will tell you lots of things. 

"Here is the places of cholera Palermo Cifalo 
Petralea and other little towns. In Palermo they 
die thirty-five to forty-five a day. This is in the 
newspaper. 

"Here in this town there are houses where they 
carry the people with cholera but they die a few 
there houses are full of people with cholera. 

"The same day I wrote the letter they took ten 
in these houses with cholera. I hope the cholera 
will soon be stopped. In this town now it is aw- 
ful hot. I think the people get sick for this hot 
weather. 

"I was awful glad that yous over there were 
having CJiautauqua. I am awful glad Miss Jessie 
is getting stronger. When I go over there I will 
join yous in singing songs. 

"I wish you will tell to Uncle Frank we can't 
start over there because for the cholera. We got 
everything ready to start long time ago. 

"Your old friend, 

"Ignazio Oaruso. 

"Goodby goodby goodby." 


Then another letter to my sister filled with long- 
ing. The quarantine did not lift until too late. 


32 


Ignazio 


Mr. Caruso would not venture to bring his family 
home over stormtossed winter seas. Ignazio sent 
salutations to each one of his friends, then — “I 
shall never forget you the longest day I live. 
Goodby, goodby, goodby.'' 

Early in November word came to us that Igna- 
zio had died on the twenty-third of October after 
four days illness. They had all escaped the chol- 
era, but Ignazio had succumbed to scarlet fever 
and diphtheria combined. Had he lived till March 
he would have been twelve years old. 

After a stormy voyage, the following spring the 
family returned under an almost crushing burden 
of grief. 

Mr. Caruso told me of Ignazio’s life in Italy. 
How he was growing tall and more slender and 
how the people loved him. Of their picking olives 
together in their olive grove some miles from 
Termini. Of hunting expeditions to the moun- 
tains and by the sea and of his unyielding home- 
sickness. How, when he had learned to read in 
Italian, he would sit in the doorway and read 
aloud from a book he had bought from a blind 
man, to the people who gathered to hear him till 
the crowd reached across the street. Stepping to 
the door his father asked, ‘Why do you read so 
loud, Ignazio?^' 

“Papa, the people cannot read for themselves 
and they want to hear.’’ 

In his sweet clear voice he would sing to them 


A Drop From the Melting Pot 


38 


in English, then in Italian that they might under- 
stand. 

It was one morning in October when Ignazio's 
cousin had gone hunting taking him with him. 
When they returned in the evening Ignazio was 
very sick. As he lay down he said, “Papa, I don’t 
think I will ever get up from this, don’t leave me,” 
and he never did. 

The best medical skill of Termini and Palermo 
could not save him. 

About half a dozen times during those four days 
he looked up and said, “Papa, don’t you see him?” 

“See who, Ignazio?” 

“Jesus, God is here.” 

True to his purpose, after their return from 
Sicily Mr. Caruso and his brother, who had lived 
with him, purchased the house in which they were 
living and the one adjoining. When the street 
had been paved it left these two houses below 
grade. They raised them to grade, remodelled 
them and put in the modern conveniences. They 
are no longer camping out but living in their own 
comfortable homes. 

Ninuzza,. strong, trustworthy, with a sturdy 
independence which will stand her in good stead 
in the battle of life, is winning marks in her 
school work of which we are justly proud. In this 
work she has neither asked nor accepted help for 
two years. Pedro, highstrung, sympathetic, 
warmhearted, quick to resent, quick to forgive, 


84 


Ignazio 


quick in his response to the appeal of the good, 
loves his school and has certificates that testify 
he has been neither absent nor tardy during the 
four years he has attended school. Last spring 
he won a dollar prize from the commercial club for 
the second best vegetable garden made by the chil- 
dren of his school. He is doing well in his studies, 
excelling in some. Seven years old Josephine, del- 
icate, acutely sensitive, imaginative, resembling 
Ignazio strongly in looks and mental characteris- 
tics, is a joy to her teachers and to us all. Little 
Mary, the newcomer and the pet of the household, 
gives evidence that in her ability to learn she will 
not be behind the rest. 

Many are the good times we have together but 
Ignazio is not here. 


JESSIE MILLS. 











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